


Legal Ethics, or: The Often Referenced but Never Legitimized (until now) Story of Dominick Cobb's wedding.

by rapacityinblue



Series: Inception Lawyer AU [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, F/M, M/M, POV Alternating, References to Suicide, this series has become nothing but badfic cliches, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapacityinblue/pseuds/rapacityinblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b> (Or: The Time Eames Slept with the Entire Bridal Party<br/></b><br/>Or: The Time Arthur Proved He Should Never Be Allowed to Babysit<br/>Or: A Cautionary Tale of Choking Hazards and Bouquets)</p><p> </p><p>Lawyer!AU that never ends. Dom and Ariadne get married. Arthur arranges it. Eames raises havoc. Things come of as terribly as you can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wednesday; Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this fic is set between 'Holiday Recess' and 'Summer Session'.

There is a certain madness that pervades our culture. A temporary insanity that sets upon us in our late twenties, wherein we forget that proposing is not, in and of itself, an accomplishment. That staying together is impressive, and beginning a relationship is not. That our friends have better things to do than give up their weekend and a great deal of money to come to an elaborate three-day party that is largely not fun, or enjoyable. In short: the destination wedding. 

Eames isn’t listening to Arthur. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t love him. (He does.) It isn’t that he doesn’t care what Arthur has to say. (He does. Usually.) It isn’t even that Arthur is whining. (It was maybe a little bit because Arthur is whining.) 

Arthur has not said anything new on this subject in about four hours. Actually, Arthur has not said anything new on this subject in weeks, maybe months. And Arthur is understandably put out, because Ariadne has decided to have her wedding in Geneva, Illinois, in February. 

Geneva Illinois has almost nothing in common with Geneva, Switzerland. Eames knows this because Arthur has told him so, at length, every day since Ariadne sent out her invitations. The only thing Geneva, Illinois has in common with its namesake is that in February they are both god-awfully cold and the entire wedding is likely to get stuck there. There are probably passes that snow shut (Illinois is all prairie and swamp, Eames points out; “The tri-state, then!”). They will have to kill and eat the wedding party to survive the winter. 

Or at least, that is what Arthur says. 

“Excellent,” Eames says. “You’re in the wedding party. You’ll be delicious.” 

Arthur sends him a baleful look and snaps, “I will outlive you all.” And then, thankfully, takes his complaints elsewhere. Eames worries briefly that Arthur might turn to his best friend. Ordinarily, that would be a sound course of action, but in this case, his best friend is the bride. Even Arthur, Eames assures himself, isn’t that stupid. 

It isn’t, exactly, that Eames minds listening to Arthur bitch. If he did, he would do well to find another partner, because lord does the man have a pair of lungs on him. The truth is, normally Eames finds it delightful. Arthur isn’t a petite man. But sometimes, he gives the impression of it. He’s tall, but slender, almost slight in a way that makes him appear smaller than he is. Polite, always, to a fault. And too many people mistake his mild demeanor for shyness. They miss the underlying strength in him (the unyielding, stubborn-to-the-point-of-being-an-asshole strength). And then he opens his mouth. 

Arthur is -- well, the phrase Eames’s mother (god rest her soul) would have used is “catty.” Eames had said that once in Arthur’s hearing and hadn’t gotten sex for a month, so now he says Arthur is “opinionated.” And it’s _charming,_ it usually is.

Except that the co -bachelor and -bachelorette parties are on Thursday, the rehearsal dinner is Friday, and the event itself is on Saturday. (Send-off brunch for the inlaws, hosted by his darling, on Sunday.) 

It all adds up to this. Arthur bitching. Eames, admittedly, a bit out of sorts. And maybe he isn’t listening because in forty-nine hours and twelve minutes (not that he’s counting) Arthur will be climbing into a rented car and leaving for Geneva. Alone. 

Arthur will be climbing into a rented car when Eames owns a car, a perfectly nice car, a car that Arthur practically begs to drive (maybe not verbally, but certainly orally, Eames knows _exactly_ what Arthur means), and Arthur has a boyfriend, _has had a boyfriend for well over a month, now_ , and he hasn’t asked Eames to come as his plus one. 

Maybe he isn’t so much out of sorts as he is royally _pissed off._ Arthur, lovely Arthur, remains oblivious. 

He’d almost asked Eames once. Eames cherishes the memory, but it had been a stupid thing Arthur had said in the heat of the moment. In his defense, it had been well past midnight, Eames had been jetlagged, and there were extenuating circumstances. But Arthur had almost asked him, and then he’d never mentioned it again. Not when he asked if Eames thought Ariadne really _wanted_ a KitchenAid (she didn’t; it was on the registry because that was what you put on registries and had he ever seen her bake? No, he hadn’t, and he should go with the espresso machine instead.) and _this_ is exactly why Arthur needs Eames there. Because Arthur is somehow responsible for both the bachelor and bachelorette parties, he has a rehearsal dinner and a send-off to arrange, and in the middle of it all he’s supposed to watch his best friends get married. It’s going to be a very busy weekend. Arthur might thrive under pressure, but Eames _assumes_ he’ll need some support. 

But he hasn’t asked, and Eames had thought he was just playing coy (that had been dumb) or that he’d maybe assumed, but now it’s Wednesday afternoon, Arthur is on a tear about Geneva, _again_ , and he still hasn’t asked. 

Well, to hell with him. Eames has a credit card and an internet connection and he is perfectly capable of booking his own hotel room. Let Arthur drive a Ford Focus or whatever other piece of shit they have at Enterprise. Eames owns an Astin Martin that Arthur is no longer allowed to have sex in. Game, set, match.

* * *

Arthur can tell when Eames is mad at him. He’d like to pretend it doesn’t bother him. He is perfectly independent. He’s survived twenty-seven years so far without Impressionism in his life, and he’s rather proud of the fact. He’s not the type to fall apart just because his boyfriend doesn’t approve of something incomprehensible he did.

Of course, he’s never really had a boyfriend before who mattered. And if he had had a boyfriend before, that boyfriend wouldn’t be a passive aggressive drama queen who got snitty over imagined slights and refused to talk to him about it.

Normally it isn’t a problem to cater to Eames’s ego, but in case the man hasn’t noticed, Arthur has a wedding to plan. He is a tad busy. At least he picked out an awesome gift. Ariadne is going to love having a stand-mixer. 

Eames doesn’t have the decency to leave the room, either, he’s just sitting there with a sour look on his face, his laptop balanced on his knees. He probably found out that the Art Institute cancelled their pre-shipment for the Lichtenstein exhibit, and good. One less thing for Eames to steal. The man doesn’t need to be led into temptation. 

If he wants to sulk, then Arthur will let him sulk. He’s too busy to encourage this -- _hissy fit._ He has settlement papers to file before the weekend and he is just going to ignore any and all fits of petulance. In fact, he won’t even talk to Eames. 

“What are you doing?” someone asks. He’s not sure who it is, except they’re asking Eames, and it’s only the two of them in the apartment. Whoever it is, they sound just like him. Or at least they would if he ever sounded -- plaintive. 

Damnit. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Eames says. “I am certainly not buying a present for a wedding I was not invited to, nor am I engaging a private detective to follow my boyfriend, who evidently does not request _or_ require my presence, while he is there.” 

“What?” Arthur asks, honestly and truly baffled. 

“You should go if you want to get those filed. The clerk’s office closes in fifteen,” Eames says. 

Arthur realizes he’s right, and he yelps. He grabs the papers from the printer, crumpling them in his hand, and the door slams behind him as he leaves. He’ll deal with Eames tomorrow. It will be fine. 

**Thursday**

If Eames were going to steal something, he would do it this week. Apparently, the wedding of the district attorney is a state holiday. Half the office had taken the entire week off, and whatever the rest are doing, it’s not working. If Dominick Cobb’s wedding were going to be televised, they’d wake up at four in the morning to watch it. 

Thanks to this charming lack of work-ethic, there’s no one in the office after three. They all emptied out early for the joint bachelor and bachelorette parties later tonight. Arthur is hosting them in Eames’s suit at the Wit. And, while they still Aren’t Speaking, Eames has every intention of being there to help Arthur decorate, so he plans his assault on Arthur’s files for the earliest possible moment the office emptied out. 

A few interns loiter in the bullpen, but none of them take notice of him. He is a common enough sight around the State’s Attorney’s office these days, coming to pick Arthur up for lunch or dinner. And if anyone does think to question him, well, he’s simply here to pick up something his boyfriend has forgotten, because Arthur has a busy weekend and he is a considerate partner like that.

It didn’t matter. The offices are deserted anyway, quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. He’s free to poke around Arthur’s desk without observation or interruption. 

Arthur himself had come in this morning, although he’d been doing shorter hours across the board all week. The thing about Arthur is that when he works from home, he actually works from home. (Occasionally, he works from Starbucks.) Actual effort is put into it. Things are accomplished. It looks uncomfortably like, well, like _work_ , which is something Eames has always gone to great efforts to avoid. Sometime in the last month, Work came in and plopped itself down in the middle of his hotel suite and started throwing parties there. 

Yes, well. 

Arthur is incredibly anal retentive. It’s one of the things Eames adores about him. Or, more precisely, he enjoys _poking_ at Arthur when he’s being anal retentive. In this particular instance, the stick up Arthur’s ass is going to serve him especially well, because Arthur links everything -- his home computer, his work computer, his phone -- to a secure cloud drive. It means he has access to any of his files from any device, and it means that no one else does. Unless, of course, they are logging into the drive from one of Arthur’s own computers. 

It also means that everything in Arthur’s filing system is easy to find. Painfully easy. He is going to have to speak to him about putting in some false pathways, or _something_ , because this is absolutely pathetic. He makes a mental note to address it with Arthur. 

After he’s exploited it to the full extent he can. 

He clicks on the file marked ‘Personal’ (oh, _Arthur_ ) and then on the file helpfully labeled “Ariadne and Dom’s wedding.” 

There is a document entitled, simply, “Toast.” 

Eames isn’t a total bastard. He prints out a copy before he deletes it, a grin spreading across his lips. _Let’s see you avoid me now._

He reads it as he walks back to the hotel. It’s actually quite good.

* * *

“Where the fuck have you been?” Arthur snaps when Eames makes his way into the suite. It is almost four thirty, which meant they have less than four hours to decorate, get an absurdly large amount of alcohol stocked in the bar, move the few non-hotel items Eames keeps that aren’t his artwork, _hide the artwork_ , which is mostly stolen, and Eames is out doing god knows what. Probably buying some obnoxious banner for Ariadne to wear, or handcuffs that read “dead man walking” for Dom. 

No. There will be none of that superficial, mass produced crap at _this_ party. He is the groom’s best friend, and the bride’s best friend, and this is the second time he’s watched Dom Cobb get married. The first time they’d done the law school frat party thing, and the bride had killed herself. This time they were going to do it _right._

If the host ever shows up. Arthur doesn’t wait for a response, snapping, “I need you to figure out what in this place you don’t have paperwork for and hide it before the entire circuit court of Cook County starts traipsing through, do you think you can do that? Because I swear to god, Eames, if you ruin this party by getting arrested I will not be responsible for my actions.” 

“Panties too tight, darling?” Eames asks in that insufferable drawl of his as he begins removing artwork from the walls. All of it. Arthur rolls his eyes, but Eames isn’t deterred. He says, “I could help you with that.” 

Arthur ignores the innuendo and asks instead, “Don’t you own _anything?_ Legally?” 

Eames wrinkles up his nose. “If I did, I still wouldn’t share it with these louts. My art is far too priceless to be drooled on by drunken, declasse public servants. My art should be _appreciated_ by kings and aesthetes, not ogled by grubby-handed paper pushers.” 

“I’m a grubby handed paper pusher,” Arthur points out. 

“Don’t remind me, but thank you for proving my point.” Eames says.

Arthur goes back to dusting the television, his back turned toward Eames so that Eames can’t see him rolling his eyes. “Anyway, this is not going to be declasse. I promised Dom and Ariadne that this would be quiet and tasteful, and everyone from the office knows it.”

Eames says, “Oh, I’m sure they do,” in a tone so bland it could only be sarcastic. 

“I mean it,” Arthur says. “This is going to be a party of classy motherfuckers.”

* * *

Predictably, a few of the Assistant State’s Attornies have a drink at the Wit’s spectacular rooftop lounge before coming down to the suite. Or rather, all of them do; a few have a drink too many. 

Some have much more than one drink too many. 

Eames narrowly avoids being crashed into by a girl he thinks looks a little young for the office, personally -- maybe she’s a receptionist, he doesn’t know. She giggles as she sways by, hurrying over to a group of equally young and short-skirted fellow maybe-receptionists, whispering too loudly and pointing at him in what he’s sure she thinks is a subtle manner. Drunken children, in his suite. 

She must be new, this girl, because after more giggles and whispered encouragement, she sways back over to him and rests a hand on his chest. Eames learned long ago that the entire office is pushes boundaries and oversteps like one giant, irreverent family. Arthur’s trained most of the staff out of this sort of thing by growling and baring his teeth at them any time Eames is in the building. Eames can’t blame him. He has a certain animal magnetism that just draws folk to him, men and women alike, and that is not his fault. Of course he would never betray his hard-won and exceptionally bitchy lover, but he still flirts just enough to encourage them. He likes seeing Arthur get jealous. 

Not tonight, though, not with a girl who’s too young and too drunk to know better. Eames gives a pained smile and takes her wrist in his hand, gently pulling her away from his chest before letting her hand fall. He spins her by the shoulders, points her back at the bar, and gives her a light push before dropping contact entirely.

When he looks up, he catches Arthur’s eyes over the heads of everyone else. Of course he looks furious. 

He’s not even that far away, and his lips are compressed into the thinnest line Eames has ever seen. Eames can’t help it. The words bubble up, sounding defensive (which is something he never is.) “I did _nothing_ ,” he says. 

“I know that,” Arthur says, but he still looks so miserable and like he’d love to make a scene if this weren’t his party. 

To hell with him, and this wedding, and the whole bloody State’s Attorney’s office. This hotel has an excellent gym; Eames is going to avail himself of it.

* * *

There’s really nothing Arthur can say to make things better between them. Eames doesn’t give him a chance; he turns around and just goes. In the middle of the party, which is pretty humiliating, but luckily neither Ariadne or Dom is there to see.

So Arthur does the only thing he can think of. He throws himself back into the party. He makes sure everyone has a drink in their hands and that Ariadne and Dom are being sufficiently embarrassed, and he doesn’t chase Eames down to the lobby or wherever he went, and he smiles until the last of his colleagues stumbles into the elevator. Then he goes to bed.

He wakes up early and loads the car. He doesn’t have to be in Geneva until seven tonight, but the sooner he leaves, the better. It’s a wedding. There has to be a crisis somewhere he can solve. He will make one if he has to.


	2. Friday

Geneva, IL, is every bit as obnoxious as Arthur promised. Eames finally sees what people mean about driving through the midwest. It’s nothing but corn, and what’s worse, it’s snow covered corn, which is possibly the only thing more boring than regular corn. Snow covered corn looks exactly like the snow covered soy beans, and the snow covered fields, and the snow covered road. The state of Illinois, Eames feels (and he does feel this very strongly) should invest in some goddamn snow plows. 

He hands over the keys to the Astin with some relief when he finally pulls up at the resort. The bridal party has a series of cabins that they’re sharing, which is cute, but he booked a room in the lodge. It has a hot tub, and a view of the golf course (which looks suspiciously like corn). 

Ariadne’s in the lobby of the lounge, looking fresh faced and rested as always. He’d be fooled if he hadn’t seen her last night, answering obscure questions about Dom’s childhood and doing shots for each one she got wrong. He leans down to kiss her cheek, and she hugs him, practically radiating delight. “Eames, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Thank goodness. Arthur’s in a wretched mood, maybe you can fix him.” 

“If I had that ability, love, I’d be lauded the world over,” Eames teases. “Don’t you worry about your grumpy best man, I’ll see to him.” 

Ariadne flashes him a grateful smile. “Then you’ve earned yourself a seat at the rehearsal dinner,” she says. “Thank you, Eames.” 

“Anything for a lady in distress.” His next welcome isn’t likely to be so warm. 

Sure enough, Arthur sees him first from across the lobby and Eames offers him a jaunty wave. Eames can see the wheels turning, counting off the reasons why it’s impossible. He’s supposed to be back in the city, an hour and a half east. He’d never expose the Astin to the salt caked roads of Illinois. He’s not sitting at the bar, drinking a hot toddy and wearing riding boots. 

“What the hell are you doing here,” Arthur asks, stalking across the carpet. Dominick trails behind him, his face blandly amused. 

“Eames,” Dom greets, holding out a hand. Eames shakes it. Eames has great respect for the State’s Attorney. He’d respect anyone who turned around and fixed system that had completely betrayed him. Granted, this system isn’t one Eames believes in, but he doesn’t have to. Dom does, and he’s willing to fight for it. That’s enough. 

“Mr. Cobb. Man of the hour, so to speak,” he says. 

“I think that honor goes to my bride to be,” Dom says with a grin. 

“Charming thing, she invited me to dinner tonight,” Eames answers. 

“No. No no no, I have planned everything out perfectly,” Arthur hisses. “Eames, god damnit, do not do this to me. Not now.” 

Eames blinks wide, innocent eyes at his lover. “But she’s the bride,” he says. 

Arthur looks like he’s been chewing on glass.

* * *

Despite all Arthur’s muttered portents, even he has to admit the dinner is coming off fairly well. Eames is behaving himself, mostly, even though he hasn’t spoken to Arthur through the entire meal. He’s made the bride laugh, and charmed both her sisters. The mothers absolutely adore him. In fact, everyone at the table seems a bit sad that Eames isn’t he groom. Including Dom. 

But he’s not speaking to Arthur, which, Arthur tries to remind himself, is a good thing. Because things are complicated enough as it is. He has a lot to focus on, and he can’t be distracted by one infuriating criminal who refuses to respect boundaries. 

As rehearsals go, it isn’t so bad. Ariadne is radiant and Dom looks happy for the first time Arthur can remember since -- well, if he’s being honest, since Mal. He tells himself he can admit that. It’s not a betrayal. And he thinks he feels a little bit of the unease slip away from his chest. 

At the end of the night, Eames slides over to him, his voice pitched low. “If you’ve gotten the stick out of your ass,” he says, “there’s a spa in my room.” 

Of course there is. Eames lives out of the most expensive suite at the Wit, so he wouldn’t dream of booking a simple single for this trip. And he’d booked it for himself, because he knows full well that Arthur already has a room. 

Or, rather, Arthur has a room in the cabin Ariadne and Dom booked for the groomsmen. There is a matching one for the bridal party. Arthur has his own bed, at least, but he’s sharing a room and a bathroom, sharing the entire house, with Dom’s frat brothers. They seemed to have confused Dom’s wedding with a college reunion. There is a cooler. A cooler of beer. If it’s where he last saw it (he’s sure it is) it’s leaking ice water all over the living room floor. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” he tells Eames, even though he isn’t. He _wants_ to be, he really does, but every time he looks at Eames, he sees him gently removing a drunken ASA’s hands from his chest and nudging her back to a group of her friends. It would be easier to hate Eames, Arthur muses, if the man would be just a bit more of a jackass. 

“Noted,” Eames says cheerfully. “You are pissed at me. But we are still having sex in the spa, yes?” 

“Yes,” Arthur grits out. “Shut up.” 

He tries not to smile, but it’s hard not to, when Eames _grins_ that way.

* * *

Eames isn’t very good at keeping to what Arthur calls ‘respectable’ hours. Arthur stopped fighting him on it long ago, and in return, Eames does his best not to be too obvious or obnoxious in his nighttime romps. 

He’s getting good at sliding out of bed without waking Arthur, and he leaves the still sleeping form beside him, huddled under the plush blankets. Barefoot, Eames pads from the bedroom, looking around. He’s never quite adjusted to having less than enough room to rattle in. His suite at the Wit is, essentially, a decent sized one-bedroom. This is a bit smaller and, he _itches._ He needs to move. He isn’t going to find relief in this small room with ugly artwork. 

He’s careful not to let the heavy door slam shut behind him. A lifetime of living out of hotels ingrains in one the habit of closing every door softly. Like a cat exploring a new area, he ventures cautiously down the hallway, a few inches at a time, until he finds himself back in the lobby of the lodge. 

It’s much quieter now: most of the bustle was from their party, and the guests who are staying the night have all checked in long ago. The cabins that Ariadne and Dom booked for the wedding parties, where they themselves are spending the night apart, are further out on the property line, across the golf course. Isolated enough that any ridiculous pre-wedding partying, the kind Arthur is working so hard to escape, is well contained. There’s a bar at the lobby, but it’s deserted. 

It should be deserted, this time of night, but hotel bars never are. True to form, there’s a single individual sitting at the line of stools. A girl. And Eames would mind his own business, except that her hair, just a shade too dark to be true auburn, tumbles down her back in soft waves. He knows the way she holds herself. 

“Eventually,” he says, coming over and sliding onto the stool beside her. She jumps, but catches herself, and just turns to look at him. “They are going to realize the bride is missing from the revelry. And that, my dear, is just bad form.” Ariadne has a glass of scotch in front of her, but with her round face and her soft brown eyes, she looks much too young to be drinking it. “One of what the lady’s having,” Eames tells the waitress when she comes by. 

Ariadne doesn’t say anything. She’s still looking right ahead, at the bar. Occasionally she sips from her glass, and her hand is steady. But Eames saw the three glasses of champagne she had at dinner. 

“Traditionally,” he prompts, “this is when you would say something.” 

“I’m not getting cold feet,” she snaps finally, her fingertips digging into the bar. 

“You’re drinking alone at the hotel bar the night before your wedding. I’d never imagine that you were,” Eames doesn’t need to be dry, Ariadne’s doing all the work for him. 

“Shut up, Eames,” Ariadne says, entirely without heat, almost like an automatic response. 

“You should spend far less time with Arthur,” he tells her. 

They haven’t spent a lot of time together, him and Arthur’s best friend. He’s suspects that it’s because Arthur is still not entirely comfortable showing him off. _Meet my boyfriend, the criminal. Eames, Ariadne is a Defense Attorney, you two will have a lot to talk about._

Oh, of course there have been dinners, group nights out. The usual awkward things. But really, it’s only been a month since he and Arthur became _official._ (God how he hates that word.) On any given day, Arthur comes by his, and they go from there. In short, he is in no way equipped to deal with this. 

“Another?” he offers, because Ariadne isn’t talking. After a moment, he sees her decide, yes, why not, what the hell. She nods. He holds up two fingers, raising his eyebrows at the waitress, who nods back. “So,” he asks, “is it the man, or the kids, or the thought of marriage?” 

“I’m not having second thoughts!” she says again, her voice getting shrill in a way that is not entirely convincing. He sees her cringe as she realizes it. “I’m really not,” she says again, lower. “I just didn’t want to be -- it’s really _loud_ in the cabins, and I wanted to be somewhere a little quieter.” 

“Of course.” Eames says. Arthur would, at this point, use his most acerbic tone to point out that _Eames_ is not the person you go to when you wanted quiet. Of course, he supposes he’s more come come to her than the other way. And then, because he can’t stop himself, he says, “It’s not because his last wife did a Dutch act, is it?” and he cringes. That’s really lovely, well done. 

Ariadne just stares at him for a long time, and then, of all things, she starts _giggling._ Well, he’s known she’s drunker than she looks. “I can’t believe you just said that!” she says. “I mean, I know -- that is _so_ inappropriate, I mean, seriously, on so many levels --” 

Right, the proper thing here is to apologize and set things right, but of course when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Because, you know, that wasn’t his fault. Arthur told me about Mal, I mean, what she was like, and it wasn’t Dom’s fault.” 

“Jesus, Eames, I know that. Believe me, I know that.” Ariadne gets herself under control and shakes her head. “Look, I know he didn’t push her from that ledge... not emotionally or any other way, okay? We’ve talked about it and it’s just... it’s really complicated. It’s not anyone’s fault and it’s not anything like that, okay?” she says. 

“Well, good.” That seems severely _lacking_ , somehow, but he can’t think of another way to put it. And it is quite possibly the least offensive thing he’s said in this conversation so far, so he thinks he gets points for that, at least. 

But as a person, Eames just isn’t capable of leaving well enough alone. Arthur has remarked on it more than once. He can’t resist. He takes another few deep breaths, then blurts out, “Then what is it? You love those kids.” That, he knows. He’s seen pictures of the five of them (Ariadne, Dom, the kids, and Uncle Arthur) at a concert at Grant Park last summer. While he’d been briefly a little bit barred from the country. 

“Of course I do,” Ariadne says, with a fierceness that proves his point. She doesn’t hesitate even for a moment. 

“Well, good,” Eames says. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I am the biggest proponent of self interest you will ever meet. Ask Arthur, he bitches about it enough. But just this once I think I’m going to say that it isn’t about you. You can break Dom’s heart. Go ahead, I don’t really care, the man deported me.” 

“Not exactly,” Ariadne says dryly, but he barrels right past her. 

“But you’ve got to think of those kids, now, you have to do what’s best for them. It’s a hell of a time to decide you don’t want to be their mother. And believe me, whatever your reasons for calling the wedding off, they _will_ think that.” 

He’s thought maybe he should get Arthur -- after all, this is not exactly his skill set. Good lord, is this not his skill set. But now he’s glad Arthur isn’t here, because he doesn’t want to know what his boyfriend would read into that statement. 

“You’re right,” Ariadne says finally. “You are really right. I can’t do this to the kids. Thanks, Eames,” and he starts to relax. He tenses up again immediately when she puts her hands on the bar and stands. “I have to go find Dom, I need to tell him.” 

“What?” Eames’s head flies up and he flails for a moment, trying to catch up. This is not the effect he wanted to have, not the idea _at all._ Ariadne was supposed to walk out of this conversation and down the aisle, not -- wherever she’s going now. Arthur is right, he’s truly incredibly _awful_ at this whole people thing. 

“Eames,” Ariadne says, “Those kids had their mother kill herself. They’ve been through enough. Dom really loved Mal, you know? Through everything -- I mean, till the end. He never wavered. And then he met me, and I’m the first person -- did you know he didn’t even date anyone between us?” she says. 

“He was incarcerated for some of that,” Eames says, grasping wildly at straws, and because he can’t stop his stupid mouth he says, “Not that that’s ever stopped me.” 

“Eames, you’re right. His last wife killed herself. What does that say about me?” 

“That he’s trading up?” Eames hazards. Ariadne’s pretty face has a pinched, unhappy look. “Listen, you’re drunk,” Eames said, waving off her glare. “Don’t even, I’m right. Even if you decide to do this, you should do it sober, yeah? Give Dom the send off he deserves.”

She looks like she’s trying to get out of it, like she’s looking for a catch, but finally her shoulders slump. “Okay,” she agrees. “I guess.” 

“Do you want an escort back to your cabin?” Eames really has no idea what the protocol is here; where do you take an extremely drunk bride-to-be? Because Ariadne looks positively terrified at the idea of going back. “A’right, different plan. What about my room?” he says. 

Arthur, bless his heart, sleeps like the dead, so he manages to get her tucked into bed with a glass of water and a handful of alka seltzer. As he leaves her, cocooned in blankets, thanking every god he knows that Arthur won’t sleep au naturale, she reaches out and grabs his wrist. 

“He never talks to me about Mal,” Ariadne says, and she doesn’t mean Dom. His lover is too inexplicably wound up in these two and Eames wonders if Arthur knows that he’ll never be able to extricate himself. 

“He doesn’t talk to me, either. Not really,” Eames says, petting back her hair. 

Its a long tromp across the grounds in February, but like hell is he exposing the Aston to any more salt. The girls all shriek when he enters and it’s like something straight out of a slumber party, they're all gadding about in their panties and lacy camisole things. 

"Pardon me, ladies, just passing through, cheers," he says, making his way to the master suite set aside for Ariadne. Behind him, he hears one of the girls whisper, "Did you get her an _escort?!_ " 

The drinks, all of it catches up to him, and like a man who's fulfilled some purpose, Eames finds he can sleep now. So he locks the door against curious bridesmaids and tumbles into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I should have chapter 3 up by this weekend.


	3. Saturday

Arthur wakes to the gentle whistle of breath in his ear. He drank more than he should have, last night, but he didn’t drink this much. Not enough explain the tangled curls falling over his shoulder. He closes his eyes and reviews. 

Ariadne is his best friend. 

Ariadne is getting married this afternoon. 

Ariadne is in his bed. 

Ariadne likes to be the big spoon. 

With newfound insight into her and Dom's relationship (insight he really wishes he didn’t have), he tries to figure out how to extricate himself from her grasp before she starts doing something like kissing him. Or worse. He is so, so glad he put on pajama bottoms somewhere between the hot tub and the bed last night. 

Ariadne stirs when he pulls out of her arms, and then she blinks, and then she lets out a string of obscenities so profane that Arthur is seized by the sudden desire to go to church. 

"Good morning," he answers, rubbing his eyes. He knows Eames must have let her in, but there's no clues as to why. Nothing other than a bottle of bicarbonate pills and a bottle of tylenol that could be meant for either of them. Would it kill the man to leave a note? 

"Oh, my God," Ariadne says, stricken, and then it turns into a moan: "Oh, my God.... I -- last night. I have to find Eames."

"Really?" Arthur says. "Because you look like you need to throw up." He shouldn't be mean to a bride on her wedding day, he knows. Karma is so going to come back to bite him in the ass. 

"I need to find Eames..." Ariadne groans again, but she doesn't seem able to move from her slumped position on the bed. 

"Come on." Arthur sighs and hauls her up, an arm under hers to support her. "Ally oop. Don’t worry, you didn’t sleep with him. " 

"I know that!" she snaps, her fingers digging into his side. "I told him I was gonna leave Dom." 

'What?!" Arthur almost drops her. Her claws, talon like in his abdomen, keep her up. 

"I was drunk! Oh, God, bathroom, right now," she says. He does his best to oblige. 

Ariadne doesn't puke, but she seems happier with her head on the cool porcelain toilet. Arthur, more panicked than she is, thinks out loud, because it's what he does best. "Okay, are you leaving Dom?" 

She sits up fast, and regrets it. With a whine, she thumps her head back down on the toilet. "No! I told you, I was drunk!" 

"Just making sure," he says, worrying his thumb nail. "So look, we never need to tell anyone about this, OK? Just... we'll put some cucumber on your eyes, and you will drink your body weight in water, and you will be functional by five PM, so help me, Ariadne, or I will marry Dominick for you. " 

Ariadne starts giggling. And then she doesn't stop. Arthur backs out of the room slowly. "I'll go get Eames?"

"Sure," Ariadne hiccups, and then she dissolves again.

* * *

Eames is woken by a furious pounding on the door. 

He feels hungover. It’s not that he is, so much as the weeks of tension and last night’s emotional avalanche calling in their debt. "Keep your damn pants on," he yells, stumbling for the door. He listens for the tell-tale giggle of the bridesmaids, but evidently they’re still sleeping off their revelries. That leaves two equally awkward options. 

Seeing Arthur, looking just as worn and confused (but not, for the first time since they’ve met, irritated) is preferable to trying to explain this to Dom. "Why the hell is Ariadne in my bed?" Arthur asks, and Eames can't help it. He grins like a moron, because, _Arthur's_ bed? It's a hotel bed, and if it's anyone's, it's Eames's, he’s paying for it. But they're fighting and Arthur still feels fit to appropriate it. 

"Sleeping off a massive hangover and not leaving her fiance, I hope." Eames says. 

Arthur looks at him, his face pinched as he processes Eames's words. "You really--" almost as if he can't help himself, he looks around the room, which has been thoroughly wrecked by the girls but is, in fact, empty. Apart from Eames. 

"Yes?" Eames prompts. He's not sure what, exactly, Arthur expects to find, and he doesn't think he'll like hearing, so he makes an executive decision not to ask.

Finally, Arthur runs his fingers through his hair. He’s almost frantic, closer to it than Eames has seen in a long time. "I should have handled this last night. I'm not drunk enough now. Okay. She's off the ledge, and I have to go be best manly--" Eames snorts. "--Can you just go sit with her? I think its better if we keep this quiet." 

"Agreed," Eames says. "Go be best manly," And he's only grinning a little. 

Arthur nods, quickly, and turns, brushing by a bridesmaid on the way. 

She levels a glance at Eames, her eyes sultry, and licks her lips in a way that would that would be suggestive if it weren’t actually pathetic. 

“So,” she says. “Were you paid for this morning, too?” 

“Yeah, they want me to spend it with the groom.” He winks at her as he passes, and enjoys her gape-mouthed stare more than he really should.

* * *

Arthur does his best to smile and pretend that nothing’s wrong when he reaches Dom’s room. He has two points in his favor: that Dom is distracted getting ready for his wedding, is the first. His occupation is the second. He’s very good at lying. 

No, he has no idea why Eames was at the other cabin this morning. Maybe he’s sleeping with a bridesmaid. Dom, _don’t_ , he’s not, calm down. 

He’s not that good at lying, though, because he can’t stop pacing. Eventually, Dom turns to him with something almost like a glare. “For god’s sake, Arthur, you’re making me nervous.” 

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters, glancing at the door. There’s no subtle way to say, “excuse me, I left your fiancee in my bathroom and I need to check on that.” He wants to know what’s going on, back in their suite. Not knowing is driving him mad. Except he needs to stay here and keep Dom calm and trust that Eames will manage to get Ariadne down the aisle without a hitch. Without any more hitches. This nightmare will all end and Ariadne will either tell Dom herself, or she won’t, but either way, they’ll be married and it will be so incredibly not his problem.

“Listen, can you do me a favor?” Dom asks, and Arthur snaps to attention, because, _yes._ Yes, he can do anything to make the day easier for Dom. That’s what he’s here for. He nods, doing his best not to look too eager, and failing. He knows he failed terribly, and he doesn’t care. 

Dom says, “I’m worried about the kids. Not Phillipa, really, she thinks this is all grand and romantic, but James -- he’s been having a hard time. Could you just go sit with him? My mom’s there, but I want someone with him that he _knows._ ” 

Of course. The kids lived with Mal’s parents while Dom was in jail. Dom’s mother has never quite forgiven him for being incarcerated, even though his conviction was overturned. Honestly, Arthur thinks it goes back even further. She’d never liked Mal. She’d never been able to accept that Mal was French, passionate, troubled. Arthur had seen the way she looked at her grandchildren, suspicious and a little sad. 

And both kids love him. They call him Uncle Arthur, and Arthur totally doesn’t get it. He’s not a big fan of kids, just in general. Kids know it, so they either stay away from him or go out of their way to be obnoxious. But Dom’s kids are different. He doesn’t mind when James wipes his nose on his cuffs or Phillipa asks him an unending stream of questions. 

It’s not a chore to spend the afternoon with the kids. He’s done it before. It’s probably safer, given that he’s likely to burst out with the entire sordid story at any minute. And really, what’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

Eames’s cell rings once, and he ignores it, because with careful application of concealer they’ve almost got Ariadne looking like her normal, angelic self. “You are a vision of loveliness,” he tells her, dipping the angled brush into gloss and applying it in feather-like strokes to her lips. “Like a renaissance painting.” 

“Something you’d know all about,” Ariadne giggles. His phone rings again. “Are you going to get that?” she asks. 

He looks down at the caller ID. It’s Arthur. Arthur doesn’t usually call back if he doesn’t get through the first time, he’s more the type to leave a long, bitchy message. 

“I suppose I’d better,” he says with a sigh, thumbing his phone on and answering with a cheery, “The banquet hall had better be burning down, darling, because I’m doing some delicate work.” 

“I’m perfectly capable of applying my own makeup,” Ariadne tells him in an undertone, and Eames winks at her -- and then he goes serious. 

“Right, we’ll be right there,” he says. “Up you go, my dear, your son-to-be is in the emergency room.” 

Eames has to credit Ariadne. She’s half made up, her hair piled atop her head in a series of loose curls woven with flowers, and under her robes she’s only wearing pajama bottoms, garters, and a white corset with lace insets. (Eames definitely approves. Dominick, he’s sure, will enjoy his night greatly.) She doesn’t stop for clothes, just ties the robe shut and jams her feet into slippers. 

“Where?” she asks. “You can drive, right?” 

Now isn’t the time to think about his darling Astin or the salt on the roads. Eames only nods and charges after her. 

They find Arthur sitting in the waiting room at the Kishwaukee ER. Phillipa’s on the seat to one side, James, looking sour, is on the other. His arms are still pudgy with the last remnants of baby fat, crossed over the chest of his tuxedo in a splendid show of preschool petulance. Arthur, sitting beside him and just as well dressed, doesn’t look much happier. 

“James, what happened?” 

Ariadne crosses the tiled room at a run, her slippers sliding beneath her, coming to rest in a crouch in front of James’s chair. Eames follows at a more sedate pace; unthinkingly reaches for Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur, in turn, covers Eames’s hand with his own, and Eames feels his fingers contract just briefly.

“He swallowed the ring,” Arthur says. Eames manfully holds back a guffaw, and Ariadne’s eyes, round already and made moreso by eyeliner, threaten to engulf her face. 

“You swallowed the ring?” She repeats. 

“He swallowed the ring,” Arthur agrees.

“How?” Ariadne looks frankly bewildered. 

“He put it in his mouth and engaged a series of constricting muscles to push it through his esophagus and into his stomach, Ariadne!” Arthur snaps. “Phillipa asked to see the ring, so I gave it to her, and she showed it to James and he swallowed it.” 

“Okay. Okay, this is not a crisis,” Ariadne says. Eames isn’t sure what is a crisis, if this isn’t one, but he’s not going to be the person to ask. “What do we do?” 

Arthur pinches his nose. “They said everything’s fine. He’s not choking. They’re going to take an x-ray, but there’s likely nothing to do but wait until it, uh, passes.” 

“Oh my god,” Ariadne processes this, and Eames watches with interest. He can see every thought as it comes through her head, even before she speaks. “I am getting married in three hours, and my wedding ring is going to be covered in poo.” 

Arthur says, “They said it takes two or three days.” 

She brightens considerably. “I’ll be in Hawaii. Looks like Gram’s problem.” With a grin, she ruffles James’s hair. 

James, Eames has noticed, isn’t saying much of anything. He doesn’t respond to Ariadne’s grin or touch, he just continues glaring past them. He seems to be doing an excellent job at burning a hole in the wall with his laser vision. 

Eames has a secret super power. Children adore him. Even Arthur does not know this; Arthur has been keeping him in a closet, not letting him play with his almost-nephew and niece. And Eames can’t help but notice that no one is speaking directly to the young boy. About him, around him, but no one has directed a single question to James. 

James, at four, Eames is guessing, is quite eloquent enough to voice his own opinions and make informed decisions based on the facts at hand. “James,” Eames says, gently, pleasantly, in a tone pitched low enough for James to feel like it’s meant just for him. He speaks to James like he’d speak to another adult, and James responds, straightening up and dropping his arms. “James, why did you swallow the ring?” 

James looks at him, long and considering, with the gaze of a child feeling out an adult they don’t know well. After a moment, his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, his eyes skirting off to the side. Eames hears him as clear as if he’d spoken, _why should I tell you?_ “James,” Eames says, a bit more force behind his words. 

And he thinks he may have gotten it out of the boy (not literally, of course) but just then Dominick Cobb enters the emergency room, storming, and Phillipa speaks up for the first time, squalling, “Daddy, you can’t be here!” Eames intercepts him by the elbow and turns him away. 

“What the hell, Eames, I swear to you, let me see my kid, or--” 

“Fine,” Eames says firmly. “But I’ve been working on your bride’s makeup for an hour, and so help me, you will not look at her, and you will be dazzled when she walks down the aisle.” 

“I think we’re a little past superstition,” Dom begins.

“Dom, he’s fine,” Ariadne says, and it calms Dom enough that he lets himself be turned away from her, facing James, with Ariadne at his side but facing the other direction. This seems enough to placate young Phillipa, who falls silent again. 

“Why the hell is a forger and art thief doing my fiance’s makeup before our wedding?” he asks Arthur, who is still sitting beside James. Arthur shrugs. 

“Because he’s a forger and he’s an excellent artist?” he hazards. 

“I look amazing,” Ariadne informs him. 

“You can’t get married!” James shouts. 

Every adult falls silent, looking at the little boy. Even Ariadne twists, looking over her shoulder. James’s arms are crossed again, and he’s about one heartbeat from standing on his chair to get their attention. Good lad, Eames thinks. If you aren’t getting respect, demand it. 

“I swallowed the ring, and you need the ring to get married, so you can’t get married now,” James says, and he looks almost smug. 

“James, what the hell--” Dom’s face is beginning to turn a charming shade of plum, at the exact same time Ariadne says, “James, sweetie, why don’t you want us to get married?” And with every word spoken, Eames sees James shrinking in on himself. 

Arthur sees it too, and his voice, when he cuts in, is sharp and firm. “Guys, I’ve got this.” 

Both Dom and Ariadne start again, protesting, but Arthur raises a firm hand. “You told me to watch the kids. It’s my job. Dom, you go talk to the doctors,” he says, and he glares until Dom’s shoulders fall and he does. Arthur looks between the remaining four of them an nods, apparently satisfied. “Eames, did you bring the makeup?” he asks. 

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Eames says. It was in his hands when they’d run out the door; he dumped it in the back of the Astin. Arthur nods again. 

“Okay. We’re on a schedule. Phillipa, I want you to help Eames finish up Ari’s makeup, and then he’ll do yours to match, ok?” 

They may be in a hospital waiting room surrounded by screaming adults, but Phillipa is a six year old girl who is getting her makeup done. She shakes off any lingering upset and bounds off the plastic seat, taking Ariadne’s hand. 

Eames lingers behind a moment more, looking at Arthur. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice easy. Arthur shrugs. 

“I’m gonna talk to James.” he says, simply. 

Eames follows the girls off, detouring briefly to get the makeup kit from the car before joining them on the far end of the waiting room.

* * *

Beyond getting everyone to shut up, Arthur hasn’t thought much about what he’s going to say. He sits awkwardly, his palms pressed together between his knees, his elbows out to the side. James, next to him, still has his arms crossed, almost a challenge. 

“I was eight when my mom got married,” he says, finally. He’s not really sure why; it just seems like something he can offer this small, frightened boy. 

After a long time, James asks, almost grudgingly, “Was he nice?” 

Arthur hesitates, choosing carefully how to answer. “He’s nicer than my dad,” he says finally. “But he’s, you know, my dad.” 

In truth, Arthur doesn’t remember much of anything about his father. He has blurry images and the sound of his voice; the man left when Arthur was too young to know much more. But he remembers a string of boyfriends in between, and hating each and every one of them. Not because they were bad men, just because they were new and different. 

“Ariadne’s nice,” James says grudgingly. “She takes me to museums and tells me stories.”

“That sounds fun,” Arthur says. James shrugs again. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

But there’s clearly something still bothering him. If it’s not that he doesn’t like Ariadne -- but really, Arthur didn’t think that was in. They’d certainly know by now. “Is there something else, James?” Arthur asks. 

James scuffles his feet against the floor and hunches his shoulders up. 

“At school, they said when people get married, they start a new family. We’re a good family. I don’t want a new one,” James says. To Arthur’s complete and utter horror, his eyes well with tears. 

So he panics, and says the first thing he can think of. “Kiddo, Ariadne and Dom aren’t going to replace you. They both love you. Your family isn’t changing because they get married.” 

“But I swallowed Ariadne’s ring!!” James cries. “She’s gonna hate me.” 

Arthur laughs a little and slides an arm around James’s shoulders, giving him a tight hug. “She’s not gonna hate you. I can’t speak for Gram when she’s done poking through your poop, but I’m pretty sure Ariadne will still love you.” 

James looks unconvinced, but he’s sitting up a little straighter, a little less slumped, and after a moment he gives Arthur a shy, almost smile. “Okay,” he says, and then his face scrunches up. “Arthur... if I have to poop it out, is it gonna hurt?” 

Arthur’s parents never lied to him, and he’s a big believer in not lying to children. Or at least, he would be, if he’d ever given it much thought. Child rearing isn’t anything he’s ever thought much about, one way or the other. “Kid,” he tells James, his hand coming down with heavy weight on the boy’s head, “You are in for all kinds of pain.”

* * *

With _that_ behind them, and James proudly clutching an x-ray on which you can see, clear as day, the perfect ring of a wedding band illuminated against the outline of his stomach, the wedding is actually a remarkably simple affair. 

Eames wrangles himself a seat as far up as he dares, given that he wasn’t, in the strictest sense, invited. Arthur has come up with something to substitute. Eames isn’t sure, but he thinks it’s a college ring of Dom’s or something equally unfortunate. Ariadne has risen to the occasion with surprising grace. When James began to dissolve, in the car, the tears welling up because Phillipa was mad and he’d _ruined the wedding_ , Ariadne had wrapped him up in a hug and assured him that she’d love any ring Dom gave her, just like she loves her new family. 

So in the end, Phillipa stands tall and proud next to Ariadne, holding her own miniature bouquet, and James stands beside his father, only the faintest hint of red on his face to let on that he was bawling a scant hour before. Behind him is Arthur, and Eames can’t lie. In truth, he’s rather proud to see his boyfriend up there, the fingers of one hand quite absently grooming James’s hair to lie flat when he thinks he won’t be seen. 

Of course, despite it all, things still aren’t quite resolved between them. Eames understood through it all that Arthur’s been stressed by planning this whole affair, but he didn’t quite get it until today. If the last few months have been like this, one crisis leading solidly into the next, no wonder Arthur’s been, frankly, a pain in the ass. 

But in spite of this new-found understanding, they still don’t get a chance to talk, he and Arthur. Not until the reception. Eames thinks about quickly lifting a few of those seat cards, but one stern look from the bride (I know what you’re thinking, Eames, and I spent weeks on this seating chart, I have been tried to the bone today, _do not even think about it_ ) and he changes course, sitting meekly in his assigned place until the dancing begins. Then, of course, the seats empty out, and people begin to shift and talk without much regard. He makes his move. 

Arthur is sitting alone at the head table, and Eames takes Dom’s chair beside him. It’s still early in the evening, and neither Dom nor Ariadne has left the floor since their first dance together. By Eames’s count, they’ve just got to get through the video montage, and then it will finally be appropriate for him to haul the best man off for some _alone_ time. 

Deep in his gut, there’s the sense that he’s forgetting something. He dismisses it. His plans are impeccable, thank you, and he’s accounted for everything. That’s just nerves. He does get strangely nervous around Arthur, unfortunate but unavoidable. He’s learned to roll with it. He leans in, and murmurs in Arthur’s ear, “We ought to talk.” 

If Arthur is startled by his words, by his entire sudden appearance, he doesn’t say as much. In fact, he barely reacts at all, shifting ever so slightly in his chair, but not taking his eyes off the couple on the dance floor. “Talk?” he asks, his voice barely more than a low purr. “Or _talk?_ ” Eames feels a delightful shiver run up his spine, and he mimics the feeling by running his fingers up Arthur’s. 

“Well, darling, that’s entirely up to you. You’re the wordy one,” he says, because it’s true, Arthur is a bit prone to giving speeches (by which he means ranting) especially in the midst of high-intensity -- 

His throat goes dry, and it’s like his mind is one of those old cassette tapes, giving quite the pronounced whirr as it backs up, repeats what he’d just said. There’s something to that, the thought of Arthur giving speeches, that doesn’t sit quite right.

Well. Fuck. 

And Arthur is smiling, a promise, which can only bode ill for him in the long run, and he says, “Let me just give my toast.” 

Eames thinks that maybe he can slip out now, and get in the Astin before Arthur notices, and he can be back in Chicago -- no, no, Chicago’s not safe for him any more. He’s been well and truly burned there, which is a pity, he liked it quite a lot. He liked the Art Institute -- but there’s always New York. There’s lovely museums in New York, and of course when you’re on the East Coast that puts you within driving distance of the Smithsonian, and there’s quite a lot of lovely artwork there, too.

Eames draws in a breath, very deliberately, and makes his voice work, even through sudden dryness that has seized him. He’s absolutely parched. He drains a glass of champagne to relieve the feeling, and for fortitude. “Arthur,” he says, “I’ve something to tell you before --” 

“Whatever crime you want to confess to now, Eames, I’m sure it can wait,” Arthur says, rare amusement in his voice. His fork is already ringing against the crystal of his flute, and he’s reaching for his smart phone, to make his speech. 

It really, truly, cannot wait. Eames watches his eyes grow dark, his face cloud like the sky over the lake, and he decides that now would be a very good time to flee. “I’ll see you in the room, darling,” he hisses. “Cheers,” 

He’s not too big a man to run away.

* * *

In the end, the less said about that night, the better. Arthur wings something, of course, and he’s sure that most have no idea that his toast has _mysteriously gone missing._ Just like they have no idea that the bride nearly left the groom last night. Just like they have no idea that the ring bearer took his job quite a bit more literally than necessary. In the end it barely matters, because after this weekend, Arthur has the perfect material for the toast, and he manages an artful balance of embarrassing and poignant. 

He is not going to speak to Eames for a year. Maybe longer. To hell with him. The man may have fixed most of the catastrophes this weekend, but Arthur can hold a grudge like no one’s business. It’s never been more appropriate than it is today. He stole Arthur’s toast. 

He stole Arthur’s toast, which is increasingly funny, as he dances with the bride (“Are you ignoring him again, Arthur? You are such a _child_ , why don’t you just swallow my ring while you’re at it--”) and funnier still with each successive cheer of, “Kiss, kiss!” Increasingly hilarious with each toast. 

Of course, he’s drinking to each of those toasts, which may be why he’s finding it all so funny. 

And at the end of the night, if he finds himself tucked up against a surprisingly warm bulk, he and Eames both have the decency not to comment on it. 

“You’re drunk,” Eames tells him, his crooked teeth somehow forming a perfect grin. There’s something all too much like honest affection there in his eyes. Arthur would rather pretend he doesn’t see it, but he’s not drunk enough to dissemble that well. 

“You’re an ass,” he tells Eames instead, wishing his own voice didn’t sound as warm as it did. 

“Yes, well, you knew that when you invited me,” Eames ‘s grin grows broader. 

“I didn’t invite you. You invited yourself. You are a party crasher. You are crashing this party.” Arthur turns and tugs on the nearest person, who happens to be Phillipa. “He’s crashing this party,” he informs her. 

Phillipa grins back at Eames. “He showed me how to make a quarter disappear! He’s the _best_ ,” she says proudly, and Arthur groans. 

“You’ve corrupted the daughter of the State’s Attorney. You’re a fiend.”

“You knew that, too,” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “I’m also a menace. You’ll get there eventually, love, I’m just helping things along.” 

“I hate you,” Arthur tells him. At least, that’s what he means to say, but he’s fairly certain Eames hears something different. 

“Well, I knew that,” Eames says. He fits one arm under Arthur’s arms and hauls him up. “Now come on, let’s get you to bed.” 

Arthur’s blasted cabin is halfway across the state, it feels like, but Eames, clever Eames, paid for a suite in the main building. So that’s okay. In the end, it’s mostly okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on writing an epilogue for this piece, but I think it's better off where it is. I'm sorry if anyone was waiting for it. But don't worry -- the series doesn't end here. It will never end!


End file.
